Purgatorio (16 page)

               
but we heard: ‘Come with us on the bank,

               
keeping to the right, to find the stairs

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a living man can climb.

               
‘If I were not encumbered by the stone

               
that serves to bend my stiff-necked pride   
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so that I cannot lift my face,

               
‘I would look at this man, still alive

               
but nameless, to see if he is known to me

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and make him take pity for my heavy load.

               
‘I was Italian, a noble Tuscan’s son.   
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Guglielmo Aldobrandesco was my father—

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I do not know if you have ever heard his name.

               
‘The ancient blood and gallant deeds

               
done by my forebears raised such arrogance in me

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that, forgetful of our common mother,

               
‘I held all men in such great scorn

               
it caused my death—how, all in Siena know,

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and every child in Campagnatico.

               
‘I am Omberto. Pride has undone

               
not only me but all my kinsmen,

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whom it has dragged into calamity.

               
‘And for this pride, here must I bear this burden—   
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here among the dead, since I did not

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among the living—until God is satisfied.’

               
Listening, I bent down my face, and one of them,   
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not he who spoke, twisted himself   
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beneath the load that weighed him down,

               
saw me and knew me and called out,

               
with difficulty keeping his eyes fixed on me,

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as I, all hunched, trudged on beside them.

               
‘Oh,’ I said to him, ‘are you not Oderisi,   
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the honor of Gubbio and of that art

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which they in Paris call illumination?’

               
‘Brother,’ he said, ‘the pages smile brighter   
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from the brush of Franco of Bologna.

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The honor is all his now—and only mine in part.

               
‘Indeed, I hardly would have been so courteous

               
while I still lived—an overwhelming need

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to excel at any cost held fast my heart.

               
‘For such pride here we pay our debt.   
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I would not be here yet, except, while living,

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and with the means to sin, I turned to God.

               
‘O vanity of human powers,   
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how briefly lasts the crowning green of glory,

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unless an age of darkness follows!

               
‘In painting Cimabue thought he held the field   
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but now it’s Giotto has the cry,

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so that the other’s fame is dimmed.

               
‘Thus has one Guido taken from the other   
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the glory of our tongue, and he, perhaps, is born

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who will drive one and then the other from the nest.   
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‘Worldly fame is nothing but a gust of wind,   
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first blowing from one quarter, then another,

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changing name with every new direction.

               
‘Will greater fame be yours if you put off

               
your flesh when it is old than had you died

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with
pappo
and
dindi
still upon your lips   
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‘after a thousand years have passed? To eternity,

               
that time is shorter than the blinking of an eye

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is to one circling of the slowest-moving sphere.

               
‘All Tuscany resounded with the name—   
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now barely whispered even in Siena—

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of him who moves so slow in front of me.

               
‘He was the ruler there when they put down

               
the insolence of Florence,

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a city then as proud as now she is a whore.

               
‘Your renown is but the hue of grass, which comes   
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and goes, and the same sun that makes it spring

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green from the ground will wither it.’

               
And I to him: ‘Your true words pierce my heart   
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with fit humility and ease a heavy swelling there.

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But who is he of whom you spoke just now?’

               
‘That,’ he replied, ‘is Provenzan Salvani,

               
and he is here because in his presumption

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he sought to have Siena in his grasp.

               
‘Thus burdened he has gone, and goes on without rest,

               
ever since he died. Such coin he pays,

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who is too bold on earth, in recompense.’   
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And I said: ‘If the spirit that puts off   
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repentance to the very edge of life

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must stay below, before he comes up here,

               
‘as long as he has lived—

               
unless he’s helped by holy prayers—

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how was his coming here allowed?’

               
‘While he was living in his greatest glory,’ he said,   
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‘he willingly sat in the marketplace

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of Siena, putting aside all shame,   
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‘and there, to redeem his friend

               
from the torment he endured in Charles’s prison,

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he made himself tremble in every vein.

               
‘I say no more, and know my speech obscure.   
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It won’t be long before they act, your townsmen,

               
in such a way that you’ll know how to gloss it.

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It was that deed which brought him past those confines.’

               
As oxen go beneath their yoke   
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that overladen soul and I went side by side

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as long as my dear escort granted.

               
But when he said: ‘Leave him and hurry on,   
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for it is fitting here, with all your strength,

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to speed your ship with wings and oars,’

               
I straightened up, erect,   
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as one should walk, but still my thoughts

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remained bowed down and shrunken.

               
I set out, following gladly

               
in my master’s steps, and our easy stride

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made clear how light we felt.   
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And he to me: ‘Cast down your eyes.   
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It will be good for you and calm you on your way

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to look down at the bed beneath your feet.’

               
As gravestones set above the buried dead   
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bear witness to what once they were,

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their carven images recalling them to mind,

               
making us grieve with frequent tears

               
when recollection pricks and spurs

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the faithful heart with memories,

               
so were these figures sculpted there   
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along that road carved from the mountainside,

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but in their artistry more true in their resemblance.